Tuesday, November 28, 7:55 a.m.
She looked tired. It was Reed's first thought as he stopped in the doorway of the homicide bullpen, one hand clutching a pair of boots. Mitchell sat back in her chair, her scuffed boots propped up on her desk, her attention focused on a thick file in her lap.
Her eyes flew up when he let the heavy boots drop to her desk. She eyed them, then looked up with a half smile. "It's not even Christmas yet. I'm touched, Solliday "
He extended his hand and saw true appreciation light her face. "Now you're talking." She set the file on her desk and took one of the Styrofoam cups from his carton.
"It's real coffee," he said. "Not like that sludge over there in your pot."
"Yeah, but the caffeine concentration in the sludge is enough to keep us going for days." Warily she looked up at him, a plastic cream packet in her hand. "You want me to put the cream in yours, or are we going to insult each other again?"
He chuckled. "I take mine black." He looked down at the folder on her desk. "Roger Burnette's case files?"
"Not his files from Records. I requested those yesterday, but our clerk hasn't brought them up yet. These are Burnette's own notes. He was waiting when I got here this morning. Names, addresses, dates of anybody whose Wheaties he's pissed in the last few years. I think it helped him to feel like he was doing something."
"And?"
She grimaced. "Everybody in here had a grudge."
"So you're back to Caitlin being the tool to her father's payback."
She added cream to her coffee and snapped the lid back into place. "I don't know. I do know that Penny Hill was a social worker. She's probably taken a lot of kids from a lot of homes over the years. Disrupted a lot of lives, from a certain point of view. I think it will be interesting to cross reference Roger Burnette's cases with Penny Hill's. See if anybody hated them both."
"Did Roger Burnette know Penny Hill?"
"No. I was so hoping he did, but he'd never heard her name." She swung her feet to the floor. "Now it's time for morning meeting. I asked Jack and the ME to come." She grabbed the file and her coffee. "I also asked our psychologist to stop by. His name is Miles Westphalen. I filled him in. I've worked with Miles before. He's good."
Before Reed could say a word she was off down a side hallway, motioning him to follow. ^4 shrink, was all he could think. Oh joy.
A large table dominated the center of Spinnelli's conference room. Spinnelli himself sat at one end, flanked on either side by Jack linger from CSU and Sam Barrington from the ME's office. And older man sat next to Jack. He would be the shrink.
Spinnelli searched their faces, and winced. "You two get any sleep at all?"
"Not much," Mitchell said. She smiled warmly at the shrink. "Hey, Miles. Thanks for coming. This is Lieutenant. Reed Solliday from OFI. Reed, Dr. Miles Westphalen."
Reed shook the old man's hand, keeping his face blank. He hated most shrinks, Hated the way they tried to read your mind. The way they turned everything into a question. He especially hated the way they blamed propensity for evil on upbringing. He laid odds that Westphalen would have this arsonist reduced to a poor soul with no father and an abusive mother before the meeting was over.
Westphalen sat back, mildly amused. "Lieutenant Solliday, it's nice to meet you. But don't worry, I won't read your mind. Not before my first cup of coffee, anyway."
Reed's jaw tightened as Mitchell took the chair next to Westphalen. "Leave him alone, Miles," she chided wearily. "He's had a long night. We both have. Sit, Solliday. Please." She looked over at Barrington. "Have you had a chance to check her out?"
"Only a cursory look," Barrington answered as Reed sat next to Mitchell. "But I'm willing to bet I find something else on the body other than gasoline. The burns are far deeper. This fire burned longer, at least on the victim."
"So about the victim," Spinnelli interjected. "Who is she?"
"Penelope Hill, age forty-seven," Mitchell said. "She was an employee of the Department of Children and Family Services for twenty-five years." She blew a breath up through her bangs, sending them flying. "Last night was her retirement party. I talked to one of my old friends in DCFS this morning. Hill was well respected and well loved. She'd been written up in the paper several times for her community service."
"'Well loved' is relative," Westphalen noted. "By her coworkers, maybe."
"But by parents whose kids she's taken away?" Mitchell continued Westphalen's thought. '"Well loved' probably isn't a description they'd use. I thought of that, Miles."
"A cop's daughter and a social worker," Spinnelli mused. "Any connection?"
She shook her head. "Burnette didn't know her. I'll be cross-checking their caseloads today. But the fires themselves were the same in a lot of ways."
Spinnelli raised his brows. "Reed?"
All eyes turned to him. "Both were started in the kitchen. Both used natural gas as the primary fuel. Both used a strip of solid accelerant up the wall as a chemical extension of the fuse. The lab came back with the analysis of the solid accelerant used in the Doughertys' house. Ammonium nitrate mixed with kerosene and guar gum. Highly flammable. I should have the lab's analysis on the mix used in Hill's house by the end of the day, but I expect it to be the same."
Spinnelli stroked his mustache. "Are we dealing with a professional arsonist?"
"Not in the traditional sense. Arson for profit is normally committed by property owners for the insurance or by torches who are providing… a service. This doesn't feel like it's about money. It's personal. I mean, he didn't just set a fire. He blew up their houses. How he knew the victims we still haven't figured out, but the use of an explosion just screams Look at me. Look at what 1 can do."
"And Look at them. Look how they died" Mitchell murmured. "It's like a flashing neon arrow." She looked over at Westphalen. "A cry for help?"
Westphalen lifted shaggy gray brows. "More like a cry of rage."
Reed was surprised. He'd expected the shrink to run with the "cry for help" mantra. It was another thing he hated about shrinks: Nothing was anybody's fault. If a criminal committed a crime they were crying for help. That was bullshit. Criminals committed crimes because they got something out of it. Period. If they wanted help, they'd ask nicely, not by nearly blowing up a damn neighborhood.
Spinnelli pushed away from the table and walked to the whiteboard. "So we have what?" He started writing, creating two columns he headed Dougherty/Burnette and Hill. "Time of the crime?"
"Both about midnight," Reed said. "Both were residential structures in middle-class neighborhoods Both used incendiary devices with a fuse."
"Don't forget about the trash can," Mitchell murmured.
"And both had a separate fire," Reed added. "Set in a waste-basket with newspaper and a filterless cigarette. Without the filter, the cigarette burns down to the end, setting the newspaper on fire. It's a very simple, but effective time-delay device."
Spinnelli noted it, then turned around. "Now that sounds more like a novice."
"It means something," Mitchell said quietly. "It's… symbolic."
"You're probably right. What else?" Spinnelli asked. "Sam?"
"Both bodies were charred beyond visual recognition," Barrington offered. "As I said, the degree of the damage appears much greater in the second victim."
"Mrs. Hill," Mitchell murmured. "Her name was Penny Hill."
Something in her face squeezed at Reed's heart but Barrington just lifted his blond brows. "The killer used something different on the second victim. Something that didn't burn off as fast."
"Check for the nitrate mixture," Reed said. "I'll have the lab fax you the formula."
"I'll be waiting for it. Get me the second victim's dental records, Detective. I'll make a positive ID as quickly as I can."
"Yeah," Mitchell said flatly. "I'll be on that today."
Barrington stood. "If there's nothing more, I have a great deal to do today."
"Call us when you have something," Spinnelli said and Barrington left.
For a moment Mitchell glared at the door the ME had closed, then slowly flattened her fist on her thigh. When she spoke, it was quietly. "Marc, Caitlin Burnette's body was incinerated with gasoline. Penny Hill's with something… hotter."
"Probably not hotter," Reed inserted. "Just something that didn't burn off as fast."
She shrugged, annoyed. "Whatever. My point is, it was a difference. He changed. Improving on his MO, maybe."
Spinnelli's mustache bent down as he considered it. "Sounds like a reasonable assumption. What are the differences?"
"In the first house he left two devices," Reed said. "One in the kitchen and one in the master bedroom. In the second, he didn't leave one in the bedroom."
Westphalen seemed intrigued by this. "Why?"
"A specific rage for the Doughertys maybe," Westphalen said. "It was their bed."
"Or he may have decided he got plenty of bang with one device, so why risk a second," Reed countered. "A common mistake of novice arsonists is leaving too many incendiary devices. They think one is good, so five is better. But if one of the five doesn't go off, it's evidence. Simplifying could be part of his learning curve. But we'll ask the Doughertys if they have any enemies." He glanced at Mitchell. "They called me this morning. I told them we'd meet them at their house sometime after nine."'
"That's fine." She frowned though. "Miles, if the Doughertys were the target, I'd agree. But if Caitlin was the victim, why the master bed? I mean, Caitlin was studying in the spare bedroom. What good did burning a bed she'd never touched do him?"
"It's a good question," Westphaler. admitted. "Go talk to the Doughertys."
"Other differences?" Spinnelli asked.
"He left Caitlin's car in the garage and used Penny Hill's to get away," Reed said.
"It does seem like he's organizing his method," West-phalen commented.
Spinnelli scribbled on the board. "Jack?"
"We found blood spatter on the carpet we took from the Doughertys' house. Ben Trammell also found what could have been the metal button from her jeans. It was in the hall, in a crevice against the staircase. We didn't find any trace of her jeans in the hall, but they could have burned. If they did, we should find some remnants in the ash."
"What about the gasoline?" Mitchell asked.
"None on the carpet. Only in the kitchen around where the body was found."
"So he raped and shot her in the hall, then dragged her into the kitchen and doused her with gasoline." Mitchell clenched her jaw. "Son of a bitch."
"Next of kin," Spinnelli said. "Have Penny Hill's been informed?"
"Not yet," she said. "I've called all the Mark Hills in Cincinnati, but none of them are related to Penny. Human Resources at DCFS will be at their desks in another half hour or so. I'll get contact information from them."
Spinnelli sat down. "Miles, can you give us a profile, or at least a place to start?"
Westphalen cast a cautious glance Reed's direction. "Lieutenant Solliday probably has a better understanding of arsonists."
Reed gestured for him to continue, interested in what he had to say. "Go ahead."
Westphalen took off his glasses and polished the lenses with his handkerchief. "Well, about twenty-five percent of arsonists are under fourteen and light fires for excitement or due to compulsion. I don't think that's the case here. Another twenty-five percent are fifteen to eighteen." He shrugged. "I don't want to believe a teenager could do this, but we all know they're capable. Rarely are arsonists over thirty years old. If they are, they're the torches the lieutenant mentioned-purely for profit. Adult arsonists who aren't for profit are almost always seeking revenge. The majority are white. Almost all are male. I'd almost guarantee this perpetrator has a record."
"We couldn't find any prints," Unger said. "He didn't leave anything behind that we've found so far, so we have nothing to lead us to him or his record."
Westphalen frowned. "Well, when he leaves something behind, I'm betting you'll be able to link it to someone, somewhere in the system. The fact that he was seen driving away from Mrs. Hill's house seconds before the explosion indicates he either planned the timing of his escape poorly or that he planned it well and has a high need for risk."
"A high sensation seeker," Mitchell said and Westphalen nodded.
"Perhaps. Arsonists in general have had an unstable childhood. Absent fathers, emotional abuse from the mother."
Reed's jaw tightened. There it was. He'd known it was impossible for any psychologist not to blame upbringing. Westphalen's eyes met his and Reed could see the shrink had picked up on his irritation, but the older man just mildly continued. "Many times arson is a stepping stone for sex crimes," Westphalen added. "I've treated a number of sexual predators who have used arson as a means of sexual gratification early on. Then the fires aren't good enough anymore. They graduate to rape."
"So you're not surprised that this guy would rape and burn," Mitchell said.
Westphalen put his glasses back on. "No, it doesn't surprise me at all. What does surprise me is that he didn't stick around to watch his fire burn. He plans such a giant blast and then doesn't stay for the performance."
"I thought the same thing," Reed agreed, stowing his irritation. "I checked the crowd last night. I didn't see anybody in either crowd that didn't live in the neighborhood and I didn't see anybody last night that was at the Doughertys' fire."
"What's next?" Spinnelli asked.
"I'll analyze the samples we took from Hill's house last night," Unger said. "I don't anticipate finding much in the kitchen, but we did sweep the front part of the house where there was less damage. I'm going to take a team back again this morning, to check things out in the daylight. If he left a hair and it didn't burn, we'll find it. Can I count on Ben Trammell, Reed? He was a huge asset yesterday."
"Of course."
"We'll talk to the Doughertys," Mitchell said. She looked up at Reed. "Then I'd like to go back to Penny Hill's house, too."
"We should also go back to the university. We need to know who else knew where Caitlin would be or if anyone was seen around campus that didn't belong."
"And then to the arcade to check out Joel Rebinowitz's alibi. I drove by after I left Penny Hill's last night, but they were closed. They open again at noon." Mitchell looked over ai Spinnelli. "I still need Burnette's case files Can you send Stacy to get them?"
Spinnelli scratched a note on his notepad. "How far back do you want her go?"
She looked over at Westphalen. "What do you think, Miles. A year?"
The old man shrugged. "It's a place to start. I don't know, Mia."
"Me, either," she said grimly. "We can stop by DCFS and get access to Hill's records on the way back then we crosscheck until something common pops."
"Reed, have you run a database check for similar fires?" Spinnelli asked.
"Yep. I ran queries through the BATS database, Sunday morning and again this morning before I came. BATS is the Bomb Arson Tracking System that's maintained by the ATF," he added in response to Mitchell's puzzled look. "I got a lot of hits on solid accelerants, but mostly in commercial properties. I didn't get any hits when I added in the murders. I got thousands when I queried trashcan fires. I set up a query to run automatically a few times a day in case our guy does something like this somewhere else. We'll see."
Spinnelli frowned. "So basically our best bet is finding a link between our own cases at this point. Update me before you leave for the day, Mia. Good luck." He and Unger left the room, but Westphalen hung back, aimlessly fiddling with his tie.
"You don't believe in the impact of home life on criminals," Westphalen said, his voice still mild. Reed hated shrinks' "mild" voice. It was like fingernails on a chalkboard.
"I think it's society's panacea," he said, not nearly as mildly. "Everybody's got issues, Doctor. Some people get dealt a liaidet deck than otheis. Too bad. Good people deal with it and become productive citizens. Bad people don't. It's that simple."
Mitchell looked at him, her blue eyes curious, but said nothing. Westphalen pulled on his overcoat. "Such conviction."
"Yes," Reed answered, knowing his answer was curt and not giving a damn. Shrinks used ploys like that to learn things most sane people would rather keep private.
"We'll have to talk more someday," Westphalen said, mild amusement in his voice, then he turned to Mitchell with a warm smile. "I'm glad to see you back, Mia. It wasn't the same around here without you. Don't go getting shot again, okay?"
Her mouth curved, her affection for the old man obvious. "I'll do my damnedest, Miles. Say hi to the missus." When Westphalen was gone, she looked up. He thought she'd press him on why he'd been so curt with the shrink. But she didn't, simply gathering her notes. "You ready to roll, Solliday? The faster we talk to the Doughertys and check out Penny Hill's house, the faster we can get to the files, which is my absolute favorite part of the job." Her sarcasm said it was anything but.
"I thought threatening belligerent boys with bullies named Bubba was."
She grinned unexpectedly and his heart lifted a little, the sour mood brought on by the shrink fading away. "Not bad, Solliday. Added a few more poetic words there. Not bad at all. Let's stop by a drive-through on the way to the Doughertys". I'm starving."
Tuesday, November 28, 8:45 A.M.
He blinked down at the front page of the newspaper. Wow, the reporter moved fast. He hadn't expected to see the story until tomorrow. But there it was on the front page of the Bulletin- //smc serial arsonist/murderer at large.
I'm not all that large, he thought and smiled at his own joke.
They'd named Penny Hill as the victim right off the bat. None of the "withholding name of the victim pending family notification" crap. He read on and frowned. Somebody had seen him driving away. Well, they couldn't identify him even if they did since he'd been wearing the ski mask. It wouldn't matter if they'd seen the license plates of the car-they belonged to Penny Hill herself.
"The victim was Penny Hill, forty-seven years old." Hmm. She looked pretty good for an old lady. At least she had. Once again he chuckled. Now she looked like a marsh-mallow left in the fire too long.
At least he imagined she did. What he really wanted was to see the body. To see the house. To see the destruction he'd caused. But that wasn't prudent as long as the law was on the case. So who was chasing him? He scanned the article. Lieutenant. Reed Solliday, OF1. A lieutenant. They'd sent a higher-up looking for him. None of this junior G-man shit. Good. This Solliday was decorated. Experienced. He'd prove a worthy adversary. That just meant he'd have to work hard to keep his work area clean. Leave nothing for the good lieutenant and his partner to find. So who was his partner?
His lips curled into a sneer. Detective Mia Mitchell. A woman? They'd actually picked a woman to try to find him?
They'll never catch me in a million years. But overconfi-dence would not be his downfall. He'd plan and act as if two qualified men chased him. But he'd sleep easy.
He tore the article from the paper and scanned it a last time. They mentioned Caitlin. He'd missed it the first time, so anxious had he been to see Penny Hill's name in print. "The victim of the first fire is nineteen-year-old Caitlin Burnette, daughter of Sergeant Roger Burnette-" His heart nearly stopped.-"A twenty year veteran of CPD."
Shit. He'd killed the kid of a cop. What was the daughter of a cop doing there anyway? Shit. Furious, he shoved the article into his book, along with the one on the Dougherty fire from yesterday's Trib and the other one from Saturday's Spring-dale Gazette on the Thanksgiving fire. Shit. The police would hunt him now, like he was a dog. He swept all his things into his bag with one angry swoop. Dammit. This totally sucked.
He headed for the door, his heart racing as fear set in. I have to stop.
Then he stopped in his tracks. No. He couldn't stop. He wouldn't stop. He was doing this for his own future. The anger has to go, remember? You can't stop until you're done. Or it would be like… like not finishing a bottle of antibiotics.
It'll just be worse, stronger, more powerful the next time. The next time he could lose his head and get caught. But right now, he was in full control. He hadn't lost his head last night, nor would he. He was conscious of every action. He was thinking smarter. Working smarter.
He wouldn't stop. Not till he was done. He'd have to be fast not to get caught. He'd have to be perfect. But right now, he had someplace to be. He had to be on time.
Tuesday, November 28, 9:05 a.m.
Mia was folding her breakfast sandwich wrapper when they pulled in front of what had once been the Doughertys' home. A middle-aged couple stood on the curb staring up at the blackened structure in shock. "I think that's the Doughertys," Mia said quietly.
"I'd say you were right." Solliday blew out a sigh. "Let's get this done."
Mr. Dougherty turned as they approached. "You're Lieutenant Solliday?"
"I am." He shook hands with the man, then his wife. "This is Detective Mitchell."
The couple exchanged a worried glance. "I don't understand," Dougherty said.
"I'm with the Homicide division," Mia said. "Caitlin Burnette was murdered before the fire was started in your house."
Mrs. Dougherty gave a strangled cry, her hand covering her mouth. "Oh God."
His face horrified, her husband put his arm around her. "Do her parents know?"
Mia nodded. "Yes. We informed them yesterday."
"We know this is a bad time," Solliday said. "But we have to ask some questions."
"Wait." Dougherty shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts. "You said the fire was started, Detective. This was arson?"
Solliday nodded. "We found incendiary devices in the kitchen and your bedroom."
Mr. Dougherty cleared his throat. "I know this sounds insensitive and please be sure we'll do everything in our power to help you… But what do we do now? Can we contact our insurance company? We don't have a place to live."
Beside him, Mrs Dougherty swallowed convulsively. "Was anything left?"
"Not much," Solliday answered. "Contact your insurance company. Just to prepare you, they'll be conducting an investigation."
Now Mr. Dougherty swallowed. "'Are we suspects?
"We'll rule you out as quickly as possible," Mia interjected calmly.
Mr. Dougherty nodded. "When can we go in to see what we can salvage?"
"Our wedding photos…" Mrs. Dougherty's voice broke and her eyes again filled with tears. "I'm sorry. I know Caitlin's… But, Joe… Everything's gone."
Dougherty rested his cheek on the top of his wife's head. "It'll be all right, Donna. We'll get through this, just like we got through everything else." He met Solliday's gaze. "I assume either you or the insurance company will be checking our financial records."
"That's standard practice," Solliday confirmed. "If you've got something to tell us, this is a good time, sir."
"We were sued five years ago. A customer fell in our hardware store." Dougherty's mouth twisted. "The jury found in favor of the plaintiff. We lost everything."
"It's taken us five years to dig our way out," Mrs. Dougherty said wearily.
"When my dad retired two years ago, he sold us his house, cheap." Bitterly he looked up at the ruins. "We were starting all over again. Took our first vacation in years. And now this. We had the minimum insurance on this place. Just enough to get a policy. There's no financial incentive for us to destroy our own home."
"Where do you work now, Mr. Dougherty?" Solliday asked
"At a home improvement superstore." Again his mouth twisted. "I'm in charge of nuts and bolts. My boss is a kid half my age. My wife is a secretary. She takes in sewing to make ends meet. We're not rich people, but we did not do this."
"Mr. Dougherty," Mia said quietly and the man met her eyes without flinching. "Can you think of anyone who'd have a grudge against you and your wife, specifically?"
"Besides the kook that sued us?" He shook his head. "No. We kept to ourselves."
"The neighbors said you changed all the locks on the doors," Solliday commented and Mia glanced up at him. His expression was calmly unreadable.
"Emily Richter," Mr. Dougherty bit out. "The biggest busybody. My parents always asked her to watch the house when they went away. I didn't want her in my house."
"She would have gone through ourthings," Mrs. Dougherty said. "And then told everyone about our finances. She was angry when we got the house at such a bargain."
Mia took out her notebook. "Who was the kook who sued you?"
Mr. Dougherty peered over the top of her notebook. "Reggie Fagin. Why?"
She smiled at him. "Just asking the questions. May save me some time later."
"You never told us when we can go into our house," Mr. Dougherty said.
"We'll get you back in as quickly as possible," Mia assured them without giving a real answer. They seemed like nice people, but she'd check them out, just the same. "Do you have any valuables you'd like us to hold in the meantime?"
"My wedding alburn," Mis. Dougherty said. "Other thai that, I can't think right now."
Mr. Dougherty's face changed, abruptly. "Um… We have a gun, upstairs in our nightstand drawer. It's registered," he added defensively.
Solliday looked surprised. "I didn't find any guns registered in your name."
Mia looked up at him, surprised herself that he'd checked.
"It's registered in my maiden name," Mrs. Dougherty said. "Lawrence. I bought it before we got married. It's just a.22, but I'd hate for it to fall in the wrong hands."
"Excuse us a minute," Mia said and motioned Solliday with her head.
He followed her, his jaw tight. "No, I didn't find a gun," he muttered before she could ask. "And I looked in that nightstand drawer."
"Shit. He could have brought his own gun and then found theirs."
"Or Caitlin could have found it when she was up there studying and he took it during the struggle. He may have come unarmed. We could be back to Caitlin as an accident. Wrong place, wrong time."
"This muddies everything," she grumbled. As one they turned back to the waiting couple. "We didn't find your gun," Mia said. "We'll report it stolen for you."
The couple looked at each other, then back, dread in their eyes. "Was Caitlin killed with our gun?" Mr. Dougherty asked heavily.
"We don't know," Solliday said. "Was it loaded?"
Numbly Mrs. Dougherty nodded. "I kept it loaded with the safety on. I never fired it except at the firing range, and that's been… years."
"Did you know a woman named Penny Hill?" Mia asked and both shook their heads.
"I'm sorry, that name doesn't ring any bells," Mr. Dougherty said. "Why?"
"Just asking the questions." Mia smiled again to calm them. "Might help me later."
"I'll see if I can find your wedding album. Anything else?" Solliday asked.
"I know this sounds horrible, what with Caitlin…" Mrs. Dougherty's were filled with a combination of anxiety and guilt. "My cat, Percy, was in the house. He's a white Persian. Did…" She drew a breath. "Did you find him?"
Sympathy flickered in Solliday's dark eyes. "No, ma'am, we didn't. If we do, we'll let you know. I'll be right back, Detective."
Mia turned back to the couple. "Where will you be staying?"
"For now, we're at the Beacon Inn." Mr. Dougherty's brief smile was entirely without mirth. "I guess we're not supposed to leave town."
"For now, it would be easier if I or the Lieutenant could contact you when we need you,'" Mia agreed neutrally. "Here's my card. Call me if you think of anything else."
"Detective." Mrs. Dougherty was tentative. "The Bur-nettes… Ellen is a friend of mine. How are they?"
"As well as you can expect under the circumstances."
"I can't even imagine," she murmured.
They were silent then, waiting for Solliday's return. Minutes passed and Mia frowned. He should have been back by now. He'd stressed how dangerous the compromised structure was, but she'd heard nothing to indicate the roof had fallen in on his head. Still… "Excuse me," she said. Halfway up the driveway she stopped, her eyes widening as Solliday appeared from around the back. "What the hell is that?"
Solliday grimaced at the filthy bundle he held at arms' length. "Somewhere under all this dirt is a white Persian. He was curled up against the back door in the mud."
Mia grinned up at him. He seemed so disgusted. "That's so nice of you."
"No. I'm mean. Hateful. Take it. He stinks."
"No way." She laughed. "I'm allergic to dirty cats."
"My shoes are dirty," he complained and she laughed again.
She turned to Mrs. Dougherty. "It appears the prodigal cat has been found. Whoa," she said as Mrs. Dougherty ran up, hope in her eyes. "For now, this cat is evidence."
"Excuse me?" the Doughertys said together.
Solliday just scowled and kept the cat as far away from his trenchcoat as he could.
Mia sobered. "Whoever did this must have let him out or Percy slipped out when he was breaking in or leaving. We'll take him in, give him a bath and check him out. We might be lucky and get some physical evidence. If not, we'll return him to you quickly."
"He's probably hungry," Mrs. Doughtery said, biting her lip.
"We'll feed him." Mia's lips twitched. "Won't we, Lieutenant?"
Solliday's eyes narrowed in a way that promised retribution. "Sure." He held out a padded album that had also once been white. "Your wedding pictures have a good bit of water damage, but a restorer might be able to salvage some of them."
Mrs. Dougherty let out a shuddering breath. "Thank you, Lieutenant."
Solliday's scowl softened. "It's okay. See if you can find a box for Percy. I don't want him making a mess in my truck."
Tuesday, November 28, 9:25 a.m.
Thad Lewin was back. Brooke leaned against her desk as she watched the students take their places. Mike pulled his chair to the back, Jeff lounged and Manny said nothing at all. But it was Thad she watched. The boy was normally shy, but today was different. Today his head was down, his steps shuffling. He lowered himself to his chair, tenderly. Brooke blinked, not liking the picture that was beginning to form in her mind. She glanced at Jeff who lifted one side of his mouth in a cruel amusement that made her blood go cold.
"Mornin", Teacher," he drawled. "Looks like the gang's all here."
She didn't drop her gaze, challenging him silently until his eyes slid down to her breasts. God help us when he gets out.
It was a common phrase uttered by every teacher, male and female. She thought about what Devin said last night, that Jeff would reoffend and be back in jail within a month of leaving this place.
She didn't want to be on the receiving end of that offense. "Open your books," she said. "Today we're going to talk about chapter three."